


Blessed

by yeaka



Category: Olympus (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Fix-It, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Xerxes is rewarded for repentance.
Relationships: Xerxes/Pallas
Kudos: 1





	Blessed

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Olympus or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The gods are with him, he knows that much, and it drives him day and night through prayers he’s breathed a thousand times. He kneels over the lifeless body of the only man he’s ever loved and repeats the same words over and over, with the same passion and earnest every time, not allowing doubt to taint his efforts. He _knows_ he has their favour. He watches the light of the sun and stars pass alternatively over Pallas’ serene face and sees how the colour stays—his cheeks as rosy as they were in the last argument between them. The purple-blue cold that should creep into his limbs never comes. Death came for Xerxes the same way, when he was bound and lashed in Athens’ dungeon. But one day he woke to find his bonds had loosened, his guard was asleep, and he was able to steal off in the night. The gods sent him that salvation for his years of service. He knows it’s greedy to ask them for another favour, but he asks all the same, because he finds his life is nothing without the man he carried out of those same dungeons on his back, bleeding a trail right through the woods.

They’ve long passed those woods. From the tall windows of the tattered, ancient temple he’s found and made his home, Xerxes can’t even see his old city. He doesn’t look back often. He doesn’t miss it. He eats what he can salvage in the wilderness around the ruins, sleeps on a pallet beside where Pallas lies, and kneels next to that spent form every other minute. He lights the candles, bleeds his own arm in sacrifice, and _prays_.

And then, a week after the fog and snow clears, he says his final prayer for the day and leans across Pallas’ frozen chest to blow out the candles. But he hears the breath fill Pallas’ lungs and hurriedly pulls back, staring down. Familiar deep eyes blow open, wide and full, mouth gasping like the first breach after a long swim. Pallas’ broad chest arches off the stone floor, no less strong than it was on its last day—he hasn’t atrophied or withered in the slightest. He collapses back and pants hard, head lolling to Xerxes.

Xerxes closes his eyes and clenches his teeth, holding back the swell of tears that threatens to overcome him. Relief and gratitude flood his entire body. He mutters those prayers under his breath, spilling thanks and praise and his eternal soul in exchange. When he opens his eyes again, the light has come into Pallas’. He stares at Xerxes in recognition but confusion. 

He mutters first, “I don’t understand.” Then his hand flies to his throat, where the knife wound has healed, a thin scar left in its wake. The dead shouldn’t heal: another sign that told Xerxes the gods still loved him. Pallas has never spoken to them like Xerxes has. He looks lost and helpless. 

“I dragged you out,” Xerxes murmurs, as though that’s the miraculous part. When he tries to say the rest, a little laugh comes out instead. He wants to toss his head back and roar. He knew he was more powerful than Medea could ever hope to be. “I took you far from that accursed city, and I prayed for you—”

“You would’ve let my own brother execute me,” Pallas hisses, but there’s hardly any malice in it this time. “You betrayed me—”

“And you tried to kill me for it,” Xerxes answers. “You punished me just as surely, and you would’ve done the same had the queen cornered you so—”

He breaks off when he sees Pallas try to sit up. Without even thinking, he moves to help, bracing Pallas’ arm and steadying him, though he manages well enough, coming to like he never left. He sits there, handsome as any statue, bedraggled and dirty but no less beautiful. Far less powerful, but Xerxes is no less drawn to him. Their relationship has always been a complicated one. 

Xerxes is the one that’s had time to think on it. He’s the one that was given a chance to prove himself. And he watched everything else he ever had slip through his fingers, leaving him empty and hollow, able to realize the only thing that really mattered. 

He squeezes Pallas’ shoulder and explains what little he can of it: “I was granted a second chance, Pallas. I see now that we were both fools. Athens poisons the mind. The throne poisons the soul. We gave up our—”

“I know what we gave up,” Pallas mutters. He shakes his head, and when he looks up, Xerxes sees that he knows it too. He takes a shuddering breath. He’s clearly troubled, but Xerxes knew it would take more time to heal his spirit than his body. 

He hesitates before moving his hand over Xerxes, and Xerxes knows it wasn’t all in vain. 

Pallas swallows and nods. He looks like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t have to; Xerxes knows they’re of one mind. They can’t go back to Athens now. Never should and never will. 

But Pallas’ head falls onto Xerxes shoulder. Maybe he doesn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore, but more likely, he’s drawn to Xerxes’ warmth. His arms creep around Xerxes’ body, clutching tight. Xerxes knows exactly what it means, and how glad Pallas is now to be rid of all that power they once sought. He knows neither wants to go back. They have a chance to start again, to resume the love they had before a different kind of lust tore them apart. 

He kisses Pallas’ cheek with pure affection—something he hasn’t indulged in in _years_ —and murmurs, “Welcome back, my love.”


End file.
